Hearst 
Fountain  Donation 


In  the  Ch 

"V  *W  T° 

Woods 


nstmas 


ADELINE  KNAPP, 


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IN  THE  CHRISTMAS 
WOODS 


Being  the  introductory  essay  of  a  series  on 
observations  of  nature  through   the    year 


BY 

ADELINE    KNAPP 

Author  of  "  Upland  Pastures,"  Etc. 


With  an  illustration  by  William  Keith 


DONE  AT  THE  PRESS  OF 

THE  STANLEY-TAYLOR    COMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

I899 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
THE  STANLEY-TAYLOR  COMPANY. 


RAIN  UP  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Along  the  serried  slopes  a  white  shape  creeps, 
Through  oak-fringed  canon  ways,  and  up  the  steeps, 
A  mystery  of  silent,  shrouding  deeps ; 
Like  spirit  touching  earth  while  Nature  sleeps. 

It  stirs  beneath  the  laurels,  stirs  within 
The  redwood's  circling  shade,  and  light  and  thin, 
Where  the  brown  towhee  builds,  and  spiders  spin, 
Shuts  the  twist  manzanita's  tangle  in. 

With  swaying  tops  and  quivering  leaves  adart, 
Held  for  a  while  within  the  mist's  white  heart 
Like  shadowy  travelers  ready  to  depart — 
Tall,  wavering  shapes  of  eucalyptus  start. 

From  far  below,  where  level  spreads  the  plain  ; 
Traveling  with  jeweled  feet  the  hastening  grain, 
Touching  the  slumbering  hills  to  life  again, 
Marching  along  the  summits,  comes  the  rain  ! 


O^  BEAUTT. 

We  ought  to  observe  that  even  the  things  that 
follow  after  the  things  which  are  produced  according 
to  nature  contain  something  pleasing  and  attract- 
ive. .  .  .  The  ears  of  corn  bending  down, 
and  the  lion's  eyebrows,  and  the  foam  which  flows 
from  the  mouth  of  wild  boars,  and  many  other 
things — tho  they  are  far  from  being  beautiful  if  a 
man  should  examine  them  severally — still,  because 
they  are  consequent  upon  the  things  which  are 
formed  by  nature,  help  to  adorn  them,  and  they 
please  the  mind ;  so  that  if  a  man  should  have  a 
feeling  and  deeper  insight  with  respect  to  the  things 
which  are  produced  in  the  universe,  there  is  hardly 
one  of  those  which  follow  by  way  of  consequence, 
which  will  not  seem  to  him  to  be  in  a  manner  dis- 
posed so  as  to  give  pleasure.  .  .  .  And  in  an 
old  woman  and  an  old  man  he  will  be  able  to  see  a 
certain  maturity  and  comeliness,  and  the  attractive 
beauty  of  young  persons  he  will  be  able  to  look  upon 
with  chaste  eyes,  who  has  become  truly  familiar  with 
nature  and  her  works. 

MARCUS  AURELIUS  ANTONINUS. 


IN  THE  CHRISTMAS  WOODS. 

WHEN  Nature  decides  that  her  Christmas 
gift  to  us  shall  be  a  rain-storm,  she  does 
not  send  any  niggardly  shower.    It  is 
raining  in  earnest ;  not  the  swift,  drench- 
ing downpour  of  earlier  winter,  that  washes  the 
earth  of  its  summer  garb  of   dust,  nor  the  small 
rain  upon  the  tender  grass   of  Springtime,  but  a 
steady,  penetrating  descent  of  water  from  a  leaden- 
gray  sky,  with  the  wind  in  the  South.    It  is  good 
for  all  day.    My  farmer  neighbor  cocks  a  shrewd 
eye  skywards  and  says  it  is  "  raining  twenty-dollar- 
gold-pieces,"  and  he  ought  to  know. 

From  my  window  I  watch  the  beneficent  down- 
pour and  think  of  the  white,  feathery  snowflakes 
that,  in  my  Eastern  home,  always  made  Christmas 
day  seem  to  me  so  much  more  the  orthodox  festival 
than  rain  can  possibly  do ;  yet  it  may  have  rained  on 
that  first  Christmas  day  when  Hope  was  born  into 
the  world.  It  could  not  have  been  snowing.  Nor 
could  the  rainstorm,  if  there  was  one,  have  been 
more  inviting  than  this  one  seems.  The  drops 
chasing  one  another  down  the  outside  of  the  pane 
strike  the  glass  with  a  little  musical  tinkle  that 
summons  me  abroad.  It  may  not  be  prudent  to 
venture,  but  it  is  a  good  thing,  at  times,  not  to  be 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


wise  enough  to  keep  indoors  when  it  rains,  and  I 
find  myself  longing  to  go  forth  and  take  my  share 
of  Nature's  beautiful  Christmas  gift.  A  happy 
thought,  that.  I  am  quick  to  act  upon  it,  and  soon 
go  tramping  through  the  rain,  eager  to  learn  how 
my  friends  of  wood  and  canon  are  enjoying  their 
wet  Christmas. 

The  birds,  I  find,  have  fled  to  the  thickest 
shelter  they  can  find— the  redwoods  in  the  canon. 
They  have  no  pockets,  and  no  use  even  for 
aqueous  twenty-dollar-pieces;  so  they  summon 
what  philosophy  they  can  to  tide  them  over  the 
storm.  Swinging  down  a  slippery  trail  I  catch  an 
overhanging  bough,  to  save  myself  from  a  fall,  and 
incidently  disturb  a  feathered  congregation  that  has 
taken  refuge  in  this  particular  tree.  I  shake  the 
branch  and  the  birds  rush  out.  The  rain  is  sheet- 
ing down  from  the  strip  of  sky  just  visible  between 
the  towering  hills,  and  the  startled  flock  fly  heav- 
ily, with  many  a  chirping  protest,  to  another  tree, 
where  they  perch  and  huddle  again. 

A  solitary  brown  towhee,  sleek  and  trim,  is  peck- 
ing about  in  the  soft  leaf-mold,  with  the  air  of  mack- 
intoshed  and  over-shoed  comfort  that  this  bird  al- 
ways wears  in  a  storm.  The  little  creature  has  some- 
how learned  the  secret  of  unfailing  contentment.  He 
reminds  me,  when  I  see  him  under  adverse  circum- 
stances, of  that  other  object-lesson  in  cheerfulness, 
the  wee  pimpernel,  sunny-faced  anagallis,  growing  so 
bravely  about  the  hills.  In  very  early  Springtime, 
when  everything  is  green  and  lusty  after  the  winter 

8 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


rains,  the  pimpernel  holds  up  its  head  for  its  share 
of  the  good  things  of  plant  life  everywhere  abound- 
ing. But  when  the  other  flowers  and  weeds  have 
had  their  day ;  when  even  the  burr-clover  has 
ripened  and  fallen,  on  the  dry  hilltops,  in  the  bare 
meadows,  where  the  burnt  earth  shows  great  cracks 
made  by  the  hot  sun,  the  pimpernel  still  blossoms 
cheerily,  a  picture  of  humble  happiness.  The 
brown  towhee  is  the  plainest  of  our  birds.  He  is 
not  graceful ;  he  cannot  sing  ;  he  has  only  the  charm 
of  brisk  cheeriness,  unfailing,  gentle  acceptance  of 
sunshine  or  cloud,  as  each  comes,  to  recommend 
him  to  us,  but  he  is  always  a  welcome  sight  about 
garden  or  hedge. 

I  am  interested  to  note  the  effects  of  the  storm 
in  the  canon.  Here  flows  a  swift,  deep  stream, 
always  cold  and  usually  clear.  Evidently  the  wind 
has  been  at  work,  for  across  the  creek,  its  spread- 
ing arms  lifted  as  in  appeal  against  its  fate,  a  great 
alder  lies,  broken  square  off  some  six  feet  from 
its  base.  As  I  approach  I  hear  the  sharp  "tap, 
tap"  of  a  woodpecker's  horny  ax,  and  see  the 
bird  fly  away.  A  good  carpenter  he,  by  his  chips. 
He  has  thrown  down  a  considerable  pile  of  clean- 
cut  bits  of  the  hard,  yellow  wood.  They  look  as 
tho  they  had  been  cut  by  a  tiny  brpadax.  Crawl- 
ing under  the  fallen  tree  I  advance  along  the  bank, 
but  soon  find  my  progress  barred  by  a  landslide. 
The  softened  earth  above  has  given  way,  to  slip 
down  into  the  deep  cut.  Nothing  but  bed-rock  is 
left,  and  the  bare  gray  bones  of  the  mountain 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


glisten,  wet  with  the  driving  rain.  The  sight 
awakens  both  awe  and  pity.  I  am  glad  to  see  how 
the  mosses  are  hastening  to  clothe  the  rocks  again. 
Tiny  spikes  of  the  * '  horsetail ' '  are  already  growing 
where,  I  am  sure,  horsetail  has  not  grown  for  gen- 
erations. 

I  climb  on,  through  the  exposed  roots  of  an 
immense  redwood  stump,  a  relic  of  the  forest 
primeval,  driving  a  wood-rat  scampering  from  his 
haunts  as  I  do  so,  and  come  out  on  a  slope  of  soft 
leaf-mold.  Here  the  broad  green  leaves  of  the 
trillium  are  already  above  ground,  the  buds  begin- 
ning to  show  a  small  green  spike.  The  Solomon's 
seal  is  peeping  up  to  give  Christmas  greeting,  but 
everything  is  wet.  The  trillium  lies  prostrate,  its 
leaves  on  the  ground  ;  blackberry,  huckleberry  and 
wild  currant  are  soaked  and  wind-blown ;  the  red- 
woods droop  and  drip,  with  here  and  there  a 
branch  broken  by  its  own  wet  weight.  Neverthe- 
less, the  scene  is  not  cheerless.  There  is  so  much 
of  hope  in  the  quiescent  greenery,  and  the  fresh, 
wet  scent  of  the  earth  is  full  of  promise. 

It  is  surprising  how  much  rain  finds  its  way  into 
the  canon.  It  might  be  supposed  that  such  a  nar- 
row cleft  between  two  lines  of  high  hills  would 
escape  notice ;  but  the  water  pours  in  from  above  ; 
it  sweeps  through  on  the  searching  wind ;  it  flows 
down  the  wooded  banks,  from  the  hilltops,  and  the 
little  stream  becomes  a  river.  The  rain  whips  and 
patters  and  plays  musically  among  the  trees,  and 
roars  along  with  the  creek  until  everything  is  wetter 

10 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


than  the  proverbial  drowned  rat ;  but  it  does  not 
make  mud-puddles  ;  it  does  not  bring  the  same  dirt 
and  discomfort  in  its  wake  that  it  does  where  man 
makes  his  abode.  The  soft,  fragrant,  brown  mold 
receives  it  gladly ;  the  mosses  soak  it  up ;  the  trees 
catch  it  in  their  outstretched  hands  and  turn  it 
gently  down  upon  their  own  thirsty  roots  ;  the 
broad-leaved  plants  lie  down  before  it  and  arise, 
refreshed,  when  it  has  passed.  It  comes,  the  rain 
from  heaven,  as  cleanser  and  life-giver,  and  even  I, 
soaked  by  its  downpour,  bewildered  by  the  rush 
and  sweep  of  wind  and  storm,  touched  by  a  little 
mortal  fear  at  the  strangeness  of  it  all,  am  the  better 
for  such  a  wetting.  Let  but  a  single  sunbeam  sift 
through  the  branches  and  the  woods  will  smile  like 
a  happy  child  after  its  bath. 

Scrambling  up  the  side  of  a  moss-grown  rock 
I  come  face  to  face,  on  the  top,  with  a  huge  snail. 
To  my  great  surprise  I  get  a  glimpse  of  a  queer, 
dog-like  visage,  with  snub  nose  and  bright  eyes ; 
then  the  creature  pulls  its  soft,  shelly  hood  down 
over  its  head  and  I  can  see  only  its  round,  resolute- 
looking  shoulders.  I  poke  it  in  the  back,  but  it 
only  hunches  itself  together  and  rolls  over;  I  can- 
not get  another  peep  at  its  head.  That  passing 
glimpse  of  the  sturdy,  bull-dog  face,  however,  helps 
me  understand  the  persistence  with  which,  once 
they  are  started,  these  creatures  travel  forward. 
One,  crossing  my  dooryard  not  long  ago,  found  his 
way  barred  by  the  house.  Nothing  daunted,  he 
mounted  the  steps,  traversed  the  platform  and 

II 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


started  upward.  He  left  a  long,  silvery  trail  on 
the  screen  door  and  gained  the  wall.  I  watched 
him  crawl  past  the  eaves  to  the  roof,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that  in  the  course  of  time  he  came  down 
on  the  other  side.  Another  of  the  same  tribe  I 
once  found  halted  at  the  edge  of  a  stream  a  few  feet 
wide.  I  pushed  him  out  on  a  chip  and  ferried  him 
over,  whereupon  he  started  up  the  bank  without  a 
backward  glance  at  me  who  had  so  opportunely 
played  Providence  for  him. 

The  rain  must  have  slackened  somewhat  up 
above.  There  is  less  beating  in,  but  the  creek  still 
roars  turbulently.  I  have  reached,  in  my  clamber- 
ing progress,  a  place  where  the  water  tosses  itself 
joyfully  over  a  great  rock  to  fall  into  a  deep,  wide 
pool,  so  dark  and  so  still  that  even  the  tumult  of 
the  storm  seems  hardly  to  have  reached  it.  It  is 
dim  and  green  and  quiet  here ;  for  the  sunlight 
never  penetrates  to  this  spot.  The  tops  of  the  hills 
seem  almost  to  meet,  two  hundred  feet  above  our 
heads,  and  the  redwood  growth  is  dense.  The  air 
is  heavy  with  damp,  woodsy  fragrance  and  the 
water  is  almost  black.  We  talk  of  Mother  Earth, 
but  we  might  with  even  more  truth  speak  of  Mother 
Water  ;  for  every  evidence,  to-day,  is  that  the  first 
life  appeared,  not  from  the  soil,  but  nurtured  at  the 
broad  breast  of  Mother  Sea,  even  ere  land  had 
pushed  its  way  up  from  ocean's  depths.  The  green 
scum  on  the  surface  of  still  pools  ;  the  slime  molds 
covering  moist  bottoms,  furnish  us  with  some 
indication  of  what  this  primordial  vegetation  was 

12 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


like,  but  by  what  long  process  of  evolution  has 
come  from  that  common  ancestor  the  miniature 
forests  of  the  mosses  on  yonder  rocks,  the  ferns 
clothing  the  banks,  the  wild  begonia  here  at  my 
feet,  the  osiers  yonder  in  the  stream,  the  towering 
redwoods  themselves,  who  can  tell  ? 

The  story  is  our  story.  Only  here  and  there, 
however,  are  we  able  to  read  a  line,  a  paragraph, 
never  a  full  page  of  the  wonderful  tale,  but  if  it  be 
not  true  that  the  same  life  which  is  in  us  is  also,  in 
kind,  throughout  all  Nature,  then  I  see  no  reason 
why  human  beings  should  take  any  interest  in 
Nature,  or  feel  any  sympathy  with  her  processes. 
But  the  very  possibility  of  our  taking  interest  in 
the  life  of  Nature,  of  our  feeling  true  sympathy  with 
it,  is  evidence  of  our  unity  with  the  least  of  her 
creatures.  We  may  not  wrest  from  Nature  all  her 
secrets,  but  we  cannot  go  to  her  in  simplicity  of 
spirit  and  come  away  empty-hearted.  That  which 
baffles  us  but  increases  our  love;  for  something  of 
her  teaching  lies  hidden  even  in  the  mystery.  The 
same  Love  that  brought  the  Christ  child  to  earth  is 
in  the  woods  to-day,  informing  it  with  beneficent 
purpose  for  our  strengthening  and  teaching. 

A  very  wise  man  once  told  me  that  all  life 
comes  from  protoplasm,  and  that  if  we  but  knew 
the  conditions  we  could  make  the  protoplasm.  Not 
a  bad  idea,  that ;  but  if,  some  day,  we  should 
stumble  upon  the  conditions,  make  the  protoplasm, 
set  it  agoing  and  exploit  it  in  the  newspapers,  we 
may  be  sure  that  there  would  come  a  day  when  the 

13 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


wonder  would  again  be  beyond  our  comprehension. 
Life  itself  is  a  greater  mystery  than  its  causation. 
If  we  could  understand  even  such  a  comparatively 
small  matter  as  a  bird's  way  of  looking  at  life,  how 
much  of  marvel  would  clear  itself  in  our  minds  ! 

We  cannot  understand  even  that,  however. 
We  can  only,  after  all,  love  and  reverence  the 
things  of  Nature  as  they  seem  to  us  good  and  help- 
ful, and  come  into  the  use  through  recognition  of 
the  beauty.  They  are  facts,  as  we,  ourselves,  are 
facts,  and  in  reality  we  understand  them  about 
equally  well  as  we  understand  our  own  hearts  and 
lives.  A  wee  humming-bird  flew  about  my  head 
yesterday,  poised,  on  swift  wings,  directly  before 
my  face,  and  I  looked  into  his  bright,  fearless  eyes. 
I  do  not  know  what  he  thought  of  me  ;  but  neither 
do  I  know,  really,  what  I  thought  of  him.  Our 
lives  touched,  for  the  brief  instant  of  that  glance, 
and  through  him  came  to  me  a  thought  of  human 
love.  I  was  better  for  the  encounter,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  he  was  worse. 

Here  where  the  earth  has  slid  away  from  the 
roots  of  a  great  redwood  stump  I  have  found  a  long, 
creeping  rootstock  of  the  Solomon's  seal,  with  no 
less  than  ten  round,  seal-like  impressions  left  by 
past  shoots.  At  some  time  in  its  growth  the  plant 
encountered  an  obstacle  in  the  shape  of  a  strong, 
outstretching  arm  of  redwood  root.  The  tender 
growth,  striking  against  this,  from  beneath,  was 
turned  backward,  and  downward,  until,  feeling  its 
way  cautiously  in  the  dark,  it  traveled  around  the 

H 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


big  root,  and  striking  upward  sent  out  a  joyful 
shoot  to  greet  the  sun.  How  long  it  must  have 
taken  the  rootstock  to  do  this  we  cannot  surmise, 
but  I  suppose  that,  could  we  watch  these  under- 
ground happenings,  we  should  find  this  sort  of 
thing  occurring  frequently.  We  should  not,  how- 
ever, be  likely  to  discover  the  real  secret  of  the  plant's 
growth,  its  branchlets  toward  the  sun,  its  roots 
downward  in  search  of  water.  We  only  know 
that  neither  root  nor  flower  has  any  choice  but  to 
turn  toward  that  which  is  its  good.  The  necessity 
to  growth,  of  obedience  to  the  laws  of  good,  is 
everywhere  the  most  inexorable  of  Nature's  teach- 
ings. The  plants,  guided  by  instinct,  make  no 
mistake  in  following  the  good.  Higher  in  the 
scale,  where  a  measure  of  reason  is  added  to  in- 
stinct, as  in  the  case  of  the  birds,  we  find  the 
possibility  of  error  appearing,  and  mistakes  in 
judgment  are  not  infrequent  among  these.  Only  in 
man,  however,  do  we  find  the  power  to  retrieve 
mistakes,  consciously  and  voluntarily  to  retrace 
the  wrong  course  and  begin  anew,  and  only  with 
man  does  the  perilous  power  exist  to  choose 
between  following  the  good  and  turning  from  it. 

The  rain  has  fairly  ceased  now.  The  birds 
have  begun  to  stir  among  the  trees,  hopping  from 
branch  to  branch,  shaking  themselves  and  ruffling 
out  their  wet  feathers.  They  keep  up  a  sort  of 
indefinite  chatter  among  themselves  the  while, 
commenting,  it  may  be,  on  the  probable  good  that 
will  accrue  from  the  generous  Christmas  wetting. 

15 


In  the  Christmas  Woods. 


Coming  up  the  trail  toward  daylight,  for  it  has 
grown  dark  in  the  canon,  I  meet  a  flock  of  quail, 
beautiful  creatures,  that  survey  me  fearlessly  as  I 
pass.  I  hope  no  Christmas  pot  hunter  will  find 
them  and  carry  them  home,  a  trophy  of  his  day's 
sport.  How  any  human  being  who  has  ever  seen 
a  flock  of  quail  in  all  their  living,  alert  beauty,  can 
take  pleasure  in  picking  the  poor  little  bones 
of  the  slaughtered  birds  is  another  of  the  mysterious 
things  of  life.  I  came,  some  time  ago,  with  a  party 
of  trampers,  to  an  open  space  amid  the  chaparral, 
on  the  crest  of  a  chain  of  hills.  Suddenly  the 
leader  of  our  group  motioned  silence  and  stood, 
with  parted  lips  and  smiling,  delighted  eyes,  gazing 
at  a  flock  of  quail  quietly  making  their  way  through 
the  grass,  with  glossy  feathers  stirring  in  the  breeze 
and  crested  heads  held  fearlessly  high. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  beautiful?" 
whispered  their  discoverer ;  but  the  Nimrod  of  the 
party  wrung  his  weaponless  hands  and  wailed  : 

*  *  What  a  shot !     Oh,  what  a  shot ! ' ' 

Verily,  that  first  man  went  down  to  his  house 
justified,  rather  than  the  other. 


16 


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2146703 

Status:   IN  ?R< 
Source:   OCLC! 

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